


All Laced Up and Nowhere to Go

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Sex, Corsetry, Crossdressing, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:24:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock convinces John they should dress in drag. They go down from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Laced Up and Nowhere to Go

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my best work and I apologise for that.  
> For the lovely Krista over at tumblr, based off this fantastic piece I got to watch her livestream ([full size](http://invisiblesarcasm.tumblr.com/post/37598260863/gay-boyfriends-decide-to-dress-up-idk-tbh)).  
> 

“The case is solved, Sherlock,” John called through the bathroom door. “Why are we even doing this?”

Sherlock made to lean against the doorframe of the bedroom, but the tightly laced corset made that quite difficult. Instead, he went to the bathroom door and rested his forehead against it with an exaggeratedly loud sigh. “No point in wasting a perfectly good opportunity for research. Do you need help?”

“No,” John grumbled. “What could you possibly need this for?”

“It would have been useful in this case, correct?”

“Are you expecting another case involving transvestites anytime soon?”

Before Sherlock could retort, the doorknob turned. He stepped back, uncomfortably shaky in the tall purple heels. John emerged, dutifully dressed in the black-and-white striped corset, red lace-edged black-and-white knickers, red thigh-highs, and red boot heels. Sherlock took his time following the sight back from toe to chest, and finally met John’s gaze with a wide smirk.”You managed to synch yourself up rather tightly.”

“Sherlock.” John’s tone suggested he was about to ask a question, and he might not like Sherlock’s answer.

“Hm?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

John inhaled. “This isn’t about data collection, is it?”

Sherlock ran his fingertips down the sides of John’s corset.”Perhaps not for purely scientific reasons, but I do hope to collect data.”

John sighed. “Right, I’m taking this off.”

“Wait.” Sherlock grabbed his wrist and gave him an entreating look. “How does it feel?”

“Strange.” John pulled his hand away.

“Unusual, yes, but is it comfortable?” Sherlock widened his eyes expectantly.

John opened his mouth, frowned, shifted his weight back and forth. “It’s not uncomfortable.” He grimaced. “Could do without the damn shoes, though.” His gaze began wandering across Sherlock’s torso, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “You locked the door, right?”

Sherlock grinned openly. “Of course.”

He had barely managed the words before John reached up, wrapped his arms around his neck, and pulled him into a heady kiss.

“God, I hate you,” John breathed against his lips.

“That was a very convincing display.”

“Oh, shut up.” John twisted his fingers into the curls at the base of Sherlock’s skull and tugged.

Sherlock moaned into his mouth, sliding his hands from the corset to John’s lace-clad buttocks. He noted the tightening of skin and clenching muscle under his touch.

John broke away when Sherlock began to toy with the red suspenders, raising goose bumps across the soft flesh. “And why did I have to wear the knee-highs?”

“I was unable to find a pair suited for my height.” He slipped his hands under the straps and dug his fingers into the back of John’s thighs, tugging him close.

John wobbled on the heels and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders for support. “Right, of course,” he said, his breath warm against Sherlock’s collarbone. “God, how do women manage in these? I feel like my ankles are going to snap out from under me.”

“Lots of practice, I’m told.” He pried John’s hands from his neck and led him on unsteady steps to the bedroom.

John fell back onto the mattress, shaking with laughter. “This is ridiculous.”

“Mm, perhaps, but I’m not minding the view.” Sherlock tilted his head, pointedly directing his gaze to the growing erection beneath the striped knickers.

“Oi.” John stuck up one leg. “Get these off before I break something.”

Sherlock unbuckled one boot, and then the other. He helped John back to his feet and wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

“Damn,” John said, craning his neck. “How tall are you in these things? Six three? Six four?”

“Six four.”

“Christ.” He stood on his tiptoes and pulled Sherlock’s mouth down to his, sucking and nipping his lips.

Sherlock slid his fingers down the bare skin of John’s upper thighs and drew faint lines up the back to his arse.

John shuddered and pressed against Sherlock, corset rubbing against corset, which he was clearly finding frustrating.

“Would you prefer—”

“Shut up,” John said. He plunged his hands into Sherlock’s curls and crushed their open mouths together.

Sherlock would not have expected John to have a firm enough stance and balance to twist both of their bodies around and shove Sherlock back onto the bed, but he did. He very much did. Sherlock, breath shallow and eyes blown, laid very still as he watched John dig into the nightstand drawer and come up with condom and lube.

John handed Sherlock the lube. “Scoot back.”

“It’s somewhat difficult to move in—”

Before Sherlock could finish his excuse, John picked his legs up behind the knees and pushed him back on the bed like a wheelbarrow until his head was at the other side.

“Well,” Sherlock said with open surprise after John had dropped his legs. “That works.”

John circled the bad and climbed on, moving awkwardly with the unusual restraint, but no less sure of himself. He threw one leg over Sherlock’s chest and started leaning forward. He paused halfway and released a quiet “fuck” before sitting up and on Sherlock’s chest. “Loosen it. I can’t bend far enough.”

Sherlock contemplated taking his time to tease the laces loose, but John’s weight on his chest and the growing warmth in his groin spurred his fingers to haste. “Better?” he said before retying the laces.

John gave an experimental twist and nodded. “Should be.” Once the laces were knotted, he leaned forward again, this time making it to the purple silk knickers. His breath was heavy and damp on the material as he slipped his hands into the sides, hooked his thumbs on the waistband, and slid the pants down.

As John’s warm mouth enveloped his half-hard prick, Sherlock peeled down the striped knickers until he had the very pleasant view of John’s bare arse. He trailed one finger down John’s cleft, brushing past his anus and pressing along his perineum. It elicited a hard suck from the other man, and Sherlock groaned as his eyelids fell for a moment. There was a shift on either side of him, and when Sherlock opened his eyes again, John’s arse was significantly lower.

Sherlock coated two of his fingers with lube and returned them to John’s arse, this time sliding one digit slowly into John, corkscrewing as he went. John moaned around his prick and he shuddered, pushing the finger in to the knuckle. He curled his finger, pressing against John’s prostate.

John’s hips twitched as Sherlock twisted his finger, stretching him wider. The pauses of John’s mouth and tongue grew more frequent, his initially shallow breaths growing more so. By the time Sherlock had two fingers scissoring him open, John had given up all together, his head hung, panting, Sherlock’s prick erect beside his face.

With a final twist, Sherlock slid his fingers out. He gave John a moment before squeezing each buttock and spreading them. The other man responded by licking once more up the side of his cock before opening the packet and rolling on the condom. Sherlock tossed him the lube and laid his head back while John slicked him up.

He closed his eyes and did his best to just feel, as John so often insisted. Already he had studied and catalogued the changes the corset and thigh-highs brought out: the psychological insecurities battling the physical comfort of the clothing, the shallow breathing despite the loosened laces, and, of course, the frustration of reduced contact. The last puzzled Sherlock. If John was more keen on skin-to-skin, which he so clearly was, why persist in humouring him with this experiment? Sherlock had made it abundantly clear in the past that he had no desire to truly upset John, within or without the bedroom. But his one attempt at suggesting they do away with the corsets had been shot down before it was fully articulated.

Sherlock was brought back to the present when he felt John's lips against his, tongue pressing into his mouth, the taste of his own pre-ejaculate transferring to his taste buds. He silently berated himself, for he had so quickly failed to stop thinking and just feel. He was too busy reviewing the onslaught of data collected in the last few minutes to even notice John had turned around on the bed, knees now closer to Sherlock's hips than his shoulders.

He opened his eyes, John's blue irises gazing at him. He returned the kiss and rested his hands on John's hips. When their mouths parted, John smiled his little knowing smile, the smile that so often let Sherlock know his partner knew exactly what was going through his head.

John nuzzled his nose against Sherlock's and whispered, “Are you back with me now?”

“Yes. Apolo—”

John cut him off with a soft kiss. “It's alright. Wouldn’t want you to miss out is all.” He combed his fingers through Sherlock's damp curls before sitting back.

Sherlock was fully alert again, watching John move with practised ease as he grasped Sherlock's cock, lined himself up, and slid so very slowly down to the hilt. It was a sensation Sherlock doubted he would ever get bored of, which was another curiosity. Each time should not have felt so unique, and yet each time John did this added something new to what Sherlock would have considered a rather complete dataset in any experiment.

He had to conclude that it was John, rather than intercourse itself, that gave each sexual experience an inexplicable novelty.

On a whim, as John began to rock himself up and down on him, Sherlock willed his hips still. The effort to give no effort did not go amiss with John, and he raised a brow wryly at Sherlock. He did not complain, though, and increased his pace.

Sherlock gripped John's thighs, digging his fingertips into the thigh-highs, no doubt rendering them unwearable for the future.

“Feel,” John said, quiet and breathless.

And he felt. He felt the heat of being inside John coursing through his entire body; felt his hips aching to move; felt his heartbeat keep time with John's rapid, shallow breathing, his own lungs straining against the corset to keep up.

Sherlock gave in to his body's will, but not without precision. He allowed his hips to jerk up just as John's were coming down, and John cried out, palms pressing into Sherlock's corset, grasping for purchase. Sherlock bent his knees up, the heels making it difficult but not impossible to force them both into a faster pace. John kept up beautifully—he always did—and Sherlock gripped the bottom of the corset at his hips to help steady them.

John leaned back into Sherlock's thighs with one hand, the other curling around his own cock, and let Sherlock carry out the rest.

Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's, meeting beat for beat, until John came into their hands with a loud, high moan. Sherlock pulled him through the orgasm, fingers still firm around John's slackened grip.

“John,” he panted. Then, louder, more of a groan, “John!”

With what self-awareness and strength he had left, John clenched his arse around Sherlock, urging him on with a hoarse voice, “Come on, love. Almost there. Come on, Sherlock.”

A final squeeze brought Sherlock tumbling over into the starburst of oxytocin and endorphins that never failed to momentarily shut down all cognitive functions.

He liked that feeling, that reprieve from thought and an incessantly working mind. A part of him, an old part of him, hated that he liked it. It told him he was weakening his mind with every orgasm, sapping the strength of will over body he had exercised over the years. It was the same part of him that always chided himself for his past drug use, and it sounded vaguely like Mycroft.

But then John's voice washed all the uncertainty away. This was not a nicotine buzz or cocaine high. This was good for him. That's what John always said, and eventually Sherlock had started to believe him. Sex was good, healthy, and the natural chemical reaction that temporarily short-circuited Sherlock's mind wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

John was murmuring incoherently against Sherlock's neck when Sherlock's senses and thoughts began to defog. He lifted his arm and combed his hand through John's hair. John tilted his face up and gave him a lazy smile.

After a moment, Sherlock registered that John was now completely naked, having done away with corset and stockings and knickers. He had also stripped Sherlock of condom and heels, wiped both their messes up with a flannel, and curled up at Sherlock's side, waiting for his brain to reboot. Sherlock sighed. Most of the time he was only completely out of it for a minute, if not much less; occasionally, though, like this instance, it would last several.

John said he didn't mind, once they both began to understand what was happening, and his body language never argued otherwise. Even now, his mumbling became a clear whisper of, “It's fine. It's alright. It's all fine.” He pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock pushed himself into a more or less seated position, and John deftly loosed the laces. He wriggled it off and tossed it aside, lying back down and pulling John close. John snuggled into him and smiled against his collarbone.

“Question,” Sherlock said, chin atop John's head.

“Mhm?”

“You were obviously upset about the corsets, mainly about how they lessened the contact of skin, and yet insisted we carry on with them.”

John nodded under him.

“Why?”

“It was more intense.”

Sherlock frowned. It had been more—well, yes, intense—but he didn't understand what caused that. “How?”

“Mm. The breathing for one. It was like I had to swallow as much air as possible with every inhalation, and I was always just short of having enough air in my lungs without actually suffocating.”

Sherlock traced the impressions from the corset on John's torso. “What else?”

“Hm. Well, like you said, less skin.”

“That was a positive?”

“Not at first. But once you were inside me, and that was all I could feel of you? God, it was brilliant. Like the universe just narrowed down to nothing but your cock.”

Sherlock leaned away to look at John, and found a very foolish grin on his face. After a moment of contemplating what John had said, he returned it. “How was that universe?”

“Mm, really good.”

He smoothed his palm down John's back and twined their legs together. “And this one?”

John chuckled. “Also nice.”

Sherlock returned his chin to John's head, continuing the soft stroking down his back. He waited until John's breathing evened out and his body went heavy in his arms before Sherlock allowed himself to continue his catalogue. This would be an experiment worth revisiting, and it seemed John might be on board for another round with the corsets.


End file.
